


5 Times John was Fucked By A Teacher and the One Time It Was A Nurse Instead

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Plugs, Bondage, Caning, Cock Rings, Corporal Punishment, F/M, Humiliation, John being used as a fucktoy, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Public Humiliation, Sherlock's experiments, Spanking, Toys, Underage - Freeform, dub con, everyone loves John a little too much, mention of gangbang, non con, school fic, sex in public
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:06:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is lucky enough to go to an elite all-boys boarding school that is well renowned for sending graduates on to Oxbridge. What is less known about the school is that the professors regularly use corporal punishment as motivation, and that the students are used as fucktoys. John just so happens to be a personal favourite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> Written for a prompt on the BBC kink meme.
> 
> I _highly_ urge you to read the warnings before reading. I post warnings seriously and expect you to take them as such.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read. The. Warnings. I cannot stress this enough. I'm really tired of people reading all the way to the end and then telling me what a horrible, disgusting story this is. READ THE WARNINGS. Don't continue if they don't sound like your thing! Stop reading if this isn't your thing! Fuck, I have no idea how to make this any more clear, guys, seriously.

When his parents first get the news that he’s been accepted they're thrilled. Personally John doesn't see what the fuss is about. As far as he's concerned a new school is a nightmare regardless of the fact that all of its graduates apparently go on to Oxbridge. He likes his old school with his friends, but he does what he can to make his parents happy so he agrees to go. 

He had no idea what he was in for. 

If he did, he might've made a run for it.

And now?

Now it's just too late.

"Watson!"

John cringes into his desk at the sharp voice that slides across the classroom, breaking through the low chatter. Silence falls and every student turns to stare at him, their eyes collectively cold, knowing, anticipating. He works hard to maintain his composed front as he stands up, refusing to let on to anyone that he's the slightest bit nervous. "Yes sir?"

"What is this?" Professor Lestrade points to his desk. Thankfully John doesn't have to be close to know what's there.

"My homework, sir," he says softly. Usually he likes to do everything right even if it's ultimately useless, but he's dropped the ball this time and he knows it. Between Professor Holmes and Professor Moriarty he was barely able to walk straight, much less complete a fifty page essay, and it’s an excuse Lestrade doesn’t even need but having a viable reason seems to make the man that much more malicious when he looks at John.

"Unacceptable." Lestrade rises to his feet and moves around the desk. There's a chair in the corner of the room, one that all of the students try to pretend doesn't exist. It's straight-backed and dark brown, made of old wood, and it creaks when Lestrade pulls it into the middle and sits down. "Come here."

For a split second John wants to throw a tantrum. Wants to let on about how very _wrong_ this is and maybe even walk out. What keeps him from doing so is the thought of what they could do to him if he acted out. Life on a day to day basis is difficult enough to deal with; he's not sure that he can handle much more. So it's with a grim, determined silence that he steps away from the safety of his desk and walks up to the front. He doesn't need prompting to know what comes next. He leans forward, easing his belly across Lestrade's thighs, propped up on his elbows until a hand comes down on his back and forces him flat.

"You should know," Lestrade says to the class in general, "that I do not tolerate a lack of effort in my classes." As he speaks he grips the back of John's trousers and pulls them down, achingly slow, revealing the school-issued white cotton pants he's wearing underneath. John prevents himself from shivering as Lestrade's fingers glide underneath the edge of his pants, tugging them down as well. It proves to be in vain as the resulting cold rush of air across his buttocks makes him shiver. He stares straight ahead at the door and tries to pretend this isn't happening.

The first blow makes that impossible. Lestrade is good at this; he's had a lot of practice. His large hand lands squarely on the seat of John's arse in an upward motion that drives John forward. He bites his lips against the gasp that wants to escape and tightens his dangling hands into fists. There's no point in trying to get away, not when there’s a hand planted squarely in the middle of his back, and he resolves to himself that he won't wiggle, won't squirm, won't give any of them the satisfaction.

Lestrade is careful to never hit for too long in the same spot. He likes to be even, likes to make sure that the burn is a slow one that doesn't fade fast, and he peppers the blows all over John's backside, down his thighs, and even in between though the angle is difficult. John flinches at that and he hears Lestrade draw in a sharp, excited breath. There's something hard and very noticeable pressing against John's ribs and he knows what it means. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face away from the students who are staring at him with alternating versions of curiosity and glee; they're all relieved that it's John and not them.

"Watson," Lestrade says, never ceasing the steady blows. Each loud _crack_ echoes through the room and probably down the hall, since the door is open. Once or twice John even catches sight of a face peering in at them. It's hard to look but harder not to. "I believe you had something to say to me?"

"I'm sorry," John says, his breath hitching as the last syllable passes through his lips. Remaining still is getting difficult. His legs jerk and he shudders without meaning to, the movement an unconscious one. "I should have p-paid more attention to my h-homework."

"I'm not sure you're suitably chastened," says his teacher thoughtfully. He stops the blows and pauses, examining his handiwork, the blushing pink skin that borders on red.

John says nothing.

"You'll remain behind so that I can be sure you've learned your lesson. You may return to your seat."

The pain is hot and bright when he slides off of Lestrade's lap. His cock hangs flaccid between his thighs. Lestrade's eyes linger on it and John feels himself flush. It annoys him that this is what gets to him after everything he's been through and he turns, hobbling back to his desk with his trousers and pants still around his ankles. He knows better than to try pulling them up, even though sitting on the wooden chairs after a spanking is agonizing: every rough granule of wood catches against his tender skin and drags, creating painful friction that makes it nearly impossible to sit still. 

Like nothing has happened, Lestrade continues the lesson. John tries to pay attention and ignore his throbbing arse. He tries not to watch the clock, tries not to drift off into a daydream about how good his life could be if his parents had never applied for this school in the first place. In his darkest moments he wonders if they know the truth but he can't dwell on that because it threatens to break him, and more than anything John does not want to be broken.

When the bells rings, the other students flee the room. None of them meet John's eyes. He stays where he is as Lestrade putters around the room, erasing the board and putting some of his files away. Finally, he says, "Watson."

John stands up. "Sir."

"I'm disappointed in you, Watson. This isn't your best work by far."

"No Sir."

"I'd hate to have to resort to more serious disciplinary measures."

A cold chill runs up John's back. "I'll do better in the future."

"See that you do." Lestrade surveys him, arms folded. "Come here, then."

Slowly, John makes his way to the front of the room for a second time. The fact that he and the professor are now alone makes it no easier, especially when Lestrade reaches out and takes hold of his upper arm, pushing him forward until he's bent over the desk, facing the board. Two hands palm his aching backside and he can't conceal the soft groan of pain that escapes him. His skin is sensitive and inflamed and Lestrade is not gentle when he squeezes tightly, pulling John apart.

"If only the headmaster weren't so possessive," he says mournfully. John hears the sound of a zip and can't help tensing a little, though he forces himself to relax in the next moment as a lubed cock nudges teasingly at his entrance, pressing lightly and then easing off. 

"Please sir," he grates out, knowing what Lestrade’s waiting for. "Please punish me."

"Fuck, John," Lestrade groans as he pushes inside, sliding all the way in with one smooth glide. All of John's breath huffs out of his body and his eyes flutter shut. Lestrade waits a handful of seconds before pulling out and then thrusting back in with full, long strokes that mean he feels every inch of John’s silky walls.

It doesn't hurt, per se, but it's awkward, being so full and feeling the drag of a cock against his insides. Even after all this time John doesn't feel like he's used to it. He digs his fingers into the top of the desk and moans softly when the head of the thick cock strikes his prostate. Lestrade murmurs approvingly when John rocks beneath him, unconsciously moving into the rhythm. He shifts and grips John's hips, thumbs pressing hard against the hot swollen skin, and sets a hard, fast pace that grinds John's cock forward against the edge of the desk with every push forward.

And god, John hates the fact that he enjoys this, that his body is responding to the pleasure no matter how much he doesn't want it to. His cock is swelling and even the flash of pain from Lestrade's rough treatment feels good; the pain and pleasure centres of his brain are so cross wired now that he doesn't even know what's wrong anymore when it gets like this. Choking back a helpless sound he puts his head against the desk and pushes back and clenches his muscles, caught up in the dizzying hope that if it happens fast maybe this will be it and he’ll be allowed to slink back to his room and forget about everything.

Lestrade groans loudly at the sudden hot tightening and comes with a grunt and a harsh thrust, filling John with his come. He stays still until he’s absolutely sure he’s finished before pulling out, watching as the reddened entrance begins leaking his seed almost immediately. John stays in position, shaking, as one of Lestrade's fingers touches his rim, sliding around his hole almost playfully, trying to push the come back in. The gentle touch is enough to make him bite back another whimper and Lestrade notices. He laughs.

"Not to worry, John," he says, "I hardly think that you've learned your lesson that fast. Round two is _coming_ right up." He gives John another slap on the arse. “This is all for your own good, after all.”

“Yes,” John says softly, closing his eyes again. “I know.”


	2. Chapter 2

The one good thing about this school is that all of the boys have their own private rooms. Small though they may be, with barely enough space to fit a single bed and a trunk, but John knows now to take what he can get. He lays on his bed with his head in his pillow, trying to drum up enough interest to write a letter home to his parents. It’s exhausting trying to be cheerful in those letters and just the thought of having to pretend that he actually likes this bloody school is too much to handle. The majority of what he sends home are all lies, carefully crafted and written so as to avoid his parents having any information about what _really_ goes on. 

A quiet knock on the door makes him stir and he sighs, clambering wearily off of the bed. He feels cold when he sees who is waiting for him on the other side: Anderson, his dorm’s advisor. There’s only one reason for the man to be there and John doesn’t need to see the broad smirk on his face to know what’s coming. He tries to ignore the smugness in Anderson’s annoying voice when he says that the headmaster wants to see John immediately and John had best hurry because the man doesn’t seem to be overly pleased tonight.

As if he ever is.

He walks down to the Headmaster’s office as slowly as he dares and knocks. The headmaster’s secretary, Miss Anthea, impassively lets him into the outer room. She looks at him for a minute, a smirk twitching at the corner of her lips, before she saunters over to the thick wooden door that leads to the inner office. She beckons to him with one long, crooked finger and opens the door just enough to let him through. She pinches his arse as he passes and he jumps, startled, flushing at the sound of her quiet laughter as she shuts the door behind him, leaving him facing not just the headmaster but a room full of unknown men.

“Ah, John.” Headmaster Mycroft Holmes is at the head of the table, of course. “You’re late.”

“Sorry sir,” John mutters, edging around the room. Some of the men look at him with eyes that are entirely too interested and he feels not quite relieved when he’s finally beside the headmaster. 

“I heard you caused quite the disruption in Professor Lestrade’s class today.”

“Yes sir.” 

“I do wonder about you sometimes. Your parents had such high hopes for you, John.” Holmes shakes his head and sighs theatrically. “Assume the position. You know what happens if I feel you’re getting lazy. I won’t hesitate to punish you in front of my colleagues if that’s what it takes.” His expression is mocking in a way that suggests he won’t hesitate to let his colleagues join in and John swallows hard, inwardly repulsed. 

He drops to his knees without any further prompting and crawls beneath the table. There is just enough space for him to kneel between the headmasters’ parted thighs without being jostled by the feet of anyone else; the chairs were no doubt purposely set up that way. His knees will be aching with pain before the night is through, he knows. He lifts his hands and begins unbuckling the man’s belt as, above the table, Holmes starts the meeting. To hear his steady, self-assured voice speaking one would never know that he has a boy under the table freeing his cock from trousers and pants.

Of course, Holmes is not hard, not even a little. He seems to enjoy the fact that John has to put effort into making him aroused. John takes the thick, heavy cock into his hand, and just like every time he does this he is relieved that the headmaster has never shown an interest in fucking him. He’s not wholly certain he would be able to take it. He wraps his other hand around the base and begins slowly with trailing teases of the fingers, knowing just where to press to earn the best reaction. The smell is heady, musky, but clean, and he leans forward, taking just the head into his mouth.

With his tongue he delivers a series of slow, languid licks all around the sensitive tip, as though it were a lolly, sliding his tongue beneath the foreskin and humming softly as though the taste is one he enjoys. He’s never been able to figure out what exactly Holmes prefers best - the man is a bloody mystery - so he does a little bit of everything that he’s never been explicitly told not to do. Nibbling gently, licking, sliding the cock in and out of his mouth while laving his tongue along the underside, sucking first at the head and then taking the rest as deeply as he can… he’s got enough practice that he nearly swallow the whole thing without his gag reflex kicking in.

His jaw begins to ache after several steady minutes of work and he pulls back to rub at his sore cheeks. Knowing what will happen if he’s at rest for too long, he slides his hand between the man’s thighs and into his pants so that he can caresses his bollocks, rolling them between his fingers. Only then does he lean forward again and press his mouth to the fabric, lightly enough so that it doesn’t become damp and leave a visible mark, tracing the contours of the flesh beneath. He hears a hitch in the headmaster’s voice, an audible little sigh, and smirks to himself, shifting a little so that the weight on his knees doesn’t become unbearable. Slowly, he moves back to the man’s cock, taking it into his mouth and sucking so hard that his cheeks hollow from the force.

Above him, the meeting ends. The men stand up and exchange little pleasantries as they make their way out of the room. John closes his eyes and keeps working until a hand slides underneath the table and tangles into his hair, an indication that he can stop. Utterly relieved, he sits back on his heels and waits for the next indicator of what will happen. Sometimes the headmaster likes to come down his throat. Sometimes he chooses to come all over John’s face. As much as he hates both of those options, they’re infinitely better than the third one... and his heart sinks when the chair slides back and he knows that’s the one Holmes has chosen.

“John,” Holmes says and he sounds displeased. “Come out here.”

John obeys as fast as he can, which isn’t very fast at all. His knees crack painfully when he tries to straighten up and he grabs at the table for support. A heavy hand comes down on his shoulder and presses him flat against the surface. He would be relieved, grateful, for the support if he didn’t know what it means. He tries not to tense as the door swings open and Miss Anthea enters. She’s wearing a skirt, he notices immediately, and wasn’t she wearing pants earlier? It’s light and flowy and not at all tight against her thighs, which means it will be easy for her to pull it up. She wears a blank expression but her eyes are glittering noticeably as she walks over. Holmes takes her hand and helps her up onto the table, guiding her to kneel in front of John. Sure enough, she tucks her skirt up around the waistband, revealing a neatly shaved mound.

“Make it good,” she says with a smirk.

It’s awkward. In order to reach her he has to tilt his head up and it makes his neck ache. He opens his mouth as she spreads her legs and scuttles a little closer, the movement somehow graceful in spite of everything. She’s already dripping wet, her juices staining his tongue when he presses his lips against her warm skin. A breathy little sound escapes her and she grabs his head, lacing her fingers into his hair to hold him in place. He tries not to tense, knowing what’s coming, knowing that it will be worse if he does – 

A thin sharp whistle – 

And then pain explodes across the seat of buttocks, hot and burning, and he jerks forward with a muffled little cry of pain. Miss Athena and Holmes both chuckle, like they find something amusing about it. John clenches his hands into fists and pants, trying to ignore the spreading ache. He can picture the cane in his mind’s eye – long and slender, thick enough to do damage should Holmes desire it, soaked in water overnight to add extra sting – and wishes that he could snatch it away and burn the dreadful thing. He’s felt its kiss several times over the past few months, both on his bare bottom and clothed. The thin material of the school’s uniform does little to lessen the impact.

“John,” Holmes says. “If you’re not paying attention to your task you will receive more strikes, do you understand? You did a pitiful job bringing me off and I want you to service Anthea much better than that.”

Instead of responding John puts his face back between the juncture of her thighs and begins to lick, meticulously cleaning the skin of her cleft while she moans and wiggles against him. He gently flicks the tip of his tongue across her clitoris. She doesn’t like it too hard too fast and the easiest way to work her up is to wait until she starts grinding down for more pressure. He forces himself to be patient when she tilts her hips in expectation and pushes his tongue as far inside her as he can get. There’s another whistle and then more pain, blooming directly underneath the first blow, like there’s a series of perfectly lined targets and Holmes is doing his best to hit every one.

He won’t stop, not until Miss Anthea comes, and John redoubles his efforts as the blows continue relentlessly. Holmes strikes him slowly and methodically, sometimes two blows in quick succession and then a wait that seems interminable, forcing him to never be quite sure when the next one will land. Sometimes he takes his mouth away to breathe through his cries of pain and Miss Anthea always hisses and forcefully drags him back against her, using her handful of hair to direct him to where she needs him to be.

“Harder,” she urges, tilting her head back. “Come on, boy; fuck me with your tongue.”

His face hurts, unused to the strain, and his tongue feels as though someone has attached little weights, but it’s nothing compared to the burning throb that goes all the way from just above his knees to the top of his buttocks. John squirms and forcefully flattens his tongue against her clitoris. Miss Anthea moans loudly and comes in a wet gush, painting his face with her secretions, flattening her hand over his head to pin him in place. He gasps for breath and gives a pained howl as Holmes lands one last blow directly across the delicate expanse of skin where thighs meet arse. Miss Anthea slowly releases the pressure and lightly strokes the back of his head just once before she moves away, placing first one long leg on the ground and then the other.

“He’s a good learner,” she says to the headmaster, letting her skirt fall back around her thighs. “I haven’t come that hard in ages.”

“I’m glad one of us enjoyed ourselves. John, since you have pleased Anthea, you are free to go,” he says. His cock has been tucked back into his trousers and is flaccid. “You have my permission to visit the infirmary if you are in pain.”

There is no question of ‘if’. John will submit himself to another caning before he’d willingly agree to go visit the nurse. He’ll suffer through the pain instead, but saying as much to Holmes is suicide. He just nods and uses the table to drag himself back up. His knees tremble under the strain and he nearly tips over, saved only by the appearance of Anderson, who grips upper arm in a tight grip and leads him out of the room while giving a polite nod to Miss Anthea and Headmaster Mycroft Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As established last chapter, I'm _so_ going to hell for this... but judging from the comments I won't be alone. I'm much more okay with this then I should be.


	3. Chapter 3

Sitting down is always particularly difficult for the days - or, on occasion, weeks - following a visit with Professor Lestrade or the headmaster, but John is not relieved when he steps into Professor Moriarty’s classroom and finds that the man is already waiting for him, a gleeful smile on his face. There will be no sitting for this, he knows. John has a bit of trouble with maths every now and then and it was decided for him that he would benefit from having some one on one time with the professor. Moriarty never touches him, certainly never fucks him; he seems to take a churlish delight in just _using_ John and then waving it in the face of Professor Holmes.

“Hello Johnny,” he says cheerfully. “How are you today?”

“Fine, sir,” says John, already resigned to what’s going to happen. He’s not at all surprised when the door is closed behind him and Sebastian Moran steps forward. Officially he’s Moriarty’s assistant. Unofficially he’s the poor bloke who caught Moriarty’s eye while he was at school and wasn’t allowed to leave even once he graduated. John is not ashamed to say that one of his deepest fears is ending up in Moran’s position. 

“I wanted to have you two nights ago but the headmaster got there first.” Moriarty pouts, pushing his lower lip out. “So I had to wait until our normal night. Did you miss me, Johnny? Wouldn’t you rather have been here with me than over there with that old man?”

It doesn’t matter what John wants but he says, “Yes.” He steps forward when Moran comes up behind him, moving amongst the desks until he’s reached the front of the room. Predictably Moriarty backs off, leaving enough distance between them that John can’t reach out and touch even if he wants to. Not that he does, but having that extra little bit of space between them is almost comforting. Or at least it is until Moran puts a hand on his arm. He's got a length of familiar rope in his hands and John can already feel the kiss of it against his skin. He swallows.

"Strip," Moriarty says softly, his dark eyes hungry.

Slowly John follows the command, trying not to let on that it bothers him to have Moriarty watching his every move so closely. It's not so bad that Moran is watching. Moran is so impassive that he could be watching grass grow. But Moriarty licks his lips and moans softly like John is putting on a free porn show and it's infuriating. An angry blush paints his cheeks as he slides his shirt off and sets it down on the nearest desk. He kicks his shoes off and follows them with his socks, and then he slides his trousers and boxers down, putting them down on top of his shirt. Naked, he reveals that he's not erect at all, but that doesn't seem to bother Moriarty, who eyes John’s shaft like it's a delectable treat.

"Seb," he says in a low voice. "You know what to do.”

Moran takes John's arm again and goes to work. He guides John into a kneeling position and efficiently ties each ankle to its respective thigh. For extra pressure he loops an additional length of rope around John's knee and lower thigh and ties it tightly. It hurts, his legs cramping, and John grits his teeth against the instinctive urge to protest. Then he takes John's hands and ties them securely behind his back, each wrist to opposite elbow, and tugs the ropes to make sure that they're secure. They always are. John could scuttle away, if he had to, but he knows that he won't be going anywhere. That doesn't stop him from twisting helplessly when Moran grabs his body and tilts him forward, leaving him resting on his chest and knees with his arse stuck up in the air.

"Beautiful," Moriarty says approvingly. John jerks at the feeling of hot breath against his arse and Moriarty chuckles. "My, Johnny, you've been a bad boy for the headmaster to have gotten this creative."

John can't answer. This position makes it hard to breathe and he focuses on that, though his hands clench into fists when he feels a finger touching his hole. It pushes gently against him, testing the resistance, before sliding inside, smearing lube around his entrance and as far inside as it can reach. The one thing Moran does for him is to make sure he's well lubed up. John breathes out, his muscles shaking from the tension, and tries to relax as the finger leaves and something else presses against him. Small and slender, it nudges inside of him and settles just right next to prostate. He can feel the small spark of pleasure and closes his eyes helplessly when Moran reaches around to grab his cock.

"Now John. Your grade wasn't where it should have been on the last test. But since I'm such a wonderful professor I'm going to give you the chance to make it up. If you can answer these questions I'd be willing to give you a pass." Moriarty is smirking. "If you can't you may have to come back for more remedial help in the future. So it's in your best interest to pay attention." As he speaks, Moran gives one long, slow stroke from the base of John's cock to the tip.

"I'm ready," John rasps. He knows it's going to get so much worse before it gets better. He listens as Moriarty reads the first question out loud. It's difficult to focus; Moran knows exactly how much pressure to use and just where to place his fingers for the maximum amount of pleasure. But he gets it right.

He gets the next four right, too.

"Excellent!" Moriarty says, but he doesn't look like he thinks it’s excellent. He holds up a small remote. It fits neatly into his hand. "You're doing so well that I think I need to make it a little more difficult, just to make sure that we get a true reading on your abilities."

Fuck. The sweet buzzing starts up and it's all John can do to not thrash around, even though Moran's steady grip won't really allow him to. His prostate's always been sensitive and this, this is like torture, it's almost worse than the caning. He moans low in his throat and doesn't hear when Moriarty reads the question out. 

"Johnny!" The sharp reprimand comes instantly. "You know the rules. You won't be allowed a reward until you can do this so I suggest you pay attention."

He tries. He really does. But between the vibrator and Moran's unceasing strokes it's nearly impossible. John squirms and struggles to focus, trying to push past the blinding waves of pleasure. Moriarty repeats the question and it seems to take forever before his brain understands and comes up with an answer. Thank god, it's right. Moriarty is watching him eagerly and every now and then he palms the bulge between his thighs. His voice remains steady as he reads out the questions but it's obvious he's starting to lose his composure. But he never lets his guard down and when he can see that John is on the edge of losing it he orders Moran to stop. John can't help the pitiful sob that escapes him because he was _so close_.

Moran pulls away as commanded and, without even bothering to get up, crawls over to Moriarty. He twists around so that he's facing John and pushes his trousers and pants down, presenting like he's an animal waiting to be mated. John can't look away, just watches in mingled horror and something he doesn't want to recognize as Moriarty frees his cock and kneels, greedily pushing into Moran without even bothering to prepare him. If it hurts Moran gives no indication. If anything he looks like he's enjoying it, as his cock is half-hard and he starts rocking backwards into the relentless thrusts. And through it all, Moriarty never stops with the seemingly endless list of questions, until John doesn’t even know what he’s answering anymore. He spits the last number out and closes his eyes, shuddering all over, unable to keep from rocking back and forth in an effort to get a little more friction, his hips moving uselessly.

Moriarty growls softly and when John looks up he sees that the man is watching him as he fucks Moran ruthlessly, fingers digging deep into the flesh of Moran’s hips. As John watches Moran tenses suddenly and comes, his body shaking from the force of it, his eyes rolling back in his head. A moment later Moriarty groans loudly and bottoms out, spilling into Moran’s body. He stays there for a long moment, eyes still locked on John, breathing harshly. Then he pulls out, standing gracefully, and stalks over to John.

“I thought the headmaster needed a reminder,” he says softly, and in spite of himself John feels a frisson of fear, because this is when Professor Moriarty is at his most dangerous. He panics when the man walks somewhere behind him because now he can’t see and doesn’t know what Moriarty is doing. Then fingers grip the vibrator and slide it out quickly. John gasps at the sudden empty feeling but it doesn’t last long. Something hard and solid is pressed to his entrance, pushing in relentlessly. It’s thicker than what he’s used to and John moans, trembling. He doesn’t know what it is but the pressure is incredible, making his head spin. 

“W-what...” he manages to choke out.

“You should see yourself, Johnny,” comes the whisper. “I bet the headmaster will think of you every time he carries this with him.”

And just like that John knows what he’s being filled with and the idea is utterly humiliating. He whines low in his throat and tries to squirm away, but he can’t, he can’t slide off of it that easy, it’s too big. He hangs his head and shudders as Moriarty begins to fuck him slowly, angling it against his prostate with every sharp jab. For once he doesn’t seem to care about John’s maths skills, or lack thereof, and seems intent on making him orgasm. It’s working. John twists and grunts and then, with a sound he can’t bite back, he comes, his cock jerking between his thighs as he paints himself and the floor with seed.

“Brilliant,” Moriarty murmurs smugly and for the first time he touches John, one small cold finger sliding down the curve of John’s arse, brushing across his ruthlessly stretched entrance and the handle of the headmaster’s umbrella. “Absolutely brilliant.”


	4. Chapter 4

The morning after John visits Professor Moriarty he finds a note slipped under his door. He doesn't need to read it to know who it's from or what they want, but he picks it up anyway and puts it in the bottom corner of his trunk, right next to the rest of the notes that he's saved up since coming to this bloody school. It means that Moriarty went and bragged after John left, but he hopes that it doesn't mean he's in for another rough morning because he's not sure he can take it. His arse, thighs and back throb with one continuous burn and there are rope marks left around his arms and legs. He's a fucking mess, he thinks, and he doesn't know what to do about it.

He leaves his room before the other students are awake and makes his way down to the Chemistry labs. He doesn't knock, just walks right in, and there he is: Professor Sherlock Holmes, bent over a silver table that's loaded with all kinds of test tubes and vials, each filled with a bubbling concoction that is likely toxic in some way. Holmes doesn't appear to notice John's entrance but John knows better; the man misses nothing. He closes the door gently and moves closer, watching as those long fingers deftly pluck a glass flask of bright blue liquid and add it to the green one that he's hovering over. Time seems to slow down as Holmes continues his work and John watches, relaxed, knowing that nothing else can touch him here.

"John," Holmes says at last without looking up. "Fetch me the glass stirring rod."

It's automatic to obey, moving over to the desk and fetching the instrument, bringing it back and handing it over. Holmes stirs the contents of his tube and then sets the stirring rod aside before turning to face John. His eyes take in John, flicking over his body and silently assessing while John holds still, trying not to give anything away even though he knows it's a pointless endeavour. Sometimes he feels like there is nothing that Sherlock Holmes doesn't know about him and that's really quite terrifying because there's a lot that John doesn't want anyone to know, much less this man.

"I got your note," John says for lack of anything better to say.

"Of course you did. You're here, aren't you?" Holmes moves past him, over to his desk, and takes out a jar. "I've developed a new cream that's designed to work well on bruising. I heard that you'd visited my brother earlier this week. Drop your pants, John."

Again, he obeys, sliding his trousers and pants down and leaving him standing half-naked in the darkened room. Holmes turns towards him and makes an impatient movement for John to bend over. He does, resting his elbows on the nearest table, and feels Holmes behind him a moment later. There's a pause during which Holmes examines the raised welts and bruising on his back, buttocks and thighs, and then an impossibly gentle hand, covered with cream, touches his spine and begins to rub in small circles. John lets out a slow breath and drops his head as the itchy burning immediately begins to subside, replaced with a sweet, deliciously cool feeling that makes him realize how much pain he was in.

This is what he hates about Professor Holmes. He hates the little games the man plays, the way that John is never sure where he stands. With the others he knows he's never more than a fuck toy and though it repels him he can survive even that humiliation. But this, the gentle touch, it's somehow worse than anything else. Did Holmes really create this cream and it was just a coincidence that John has the wounds for to be tested on? Or did Holmes hear about what his brother did and create the cream just to make John better? He can never be sure and sometimes he thinks that Holmes isn't sure, either, and that... this is... he digs his fingers into the metal table and tries not to tremble as the fingers move down, sliding over his buttocks and across his thighs. His legs inch apart, allowing them in between, dangerously close to his growing erection.

"Does that feel better?" Holmes breathes.

"Y-yes," John stutters, his breath catching when Holmes "accidentally" grazes his perineum. That brief little flash of pleasure makes his knees feel weak. Holmes standing up behind him and he's so close that his clothing is brushing against John's bare skin. He takes a deep breath and feels his back press briefly against Holmes' chest. The contact is agonizingly short. "Professor..."

"I've told you to call me Sherlock, John."

"Sherlock." The name feels oddly intimate on his lips. He struggles to keep breathing as one finger slides between his cheeks, brushing over his entrance, and then slowly pushes inside. A soft moan escapes as he moves back into the touch. It stings after last night, but perhaps Moriarty has been detailed because Holmes – no, _Sherlock_ is oddly gentle, spending what feels like hours just moving his finger in and out patiently before adding a second with a generous glob of the cream, making sure that every inch of his hole is slathered, and it helps.

“Do you like this?” Sherlock murmurs, his voice deep and husky, thrumming through John’s bones. “Do you want me, John?”

John shakes his head in lieu of answering, biting his lip to keep back the instinctive ‘yes’ that wants to escape. Sherlock chuckles and pulls his fingers out. He feels a flash of disappointment when Sherlock steps away. He stays where he is for a breathless moment, uncertain, and he can imagine that Sherlock is smirking because he likes this, this moment when they both know that Sherlock can do anything and John won't try to stop it. With the others he hates what happens and if he ever has the chance to rebel he will. But if Sherlock wants him to John will bend over and part his cheeks, he'll let the man fuck him, he'll enjoy it and he won't want it to stop. This is what terrifies him, the knowledge that if Sherlock wants him to be what Moran is to Moriarty, John might not say no, probably doesn't even know how to say no.

"Pulls your pants up," Sherlock says softly. “We have things to do today.”

John’s hands feel numb as he pulls his trousers and pants up, settling them snugly around his waist. He follows Sherlock to the door and out into the hallway. The lights seem oddly bright after how dark the room was. He squints, rubbing at his eyes, and realizes that while they were in the room the school has gradually come alive with other students. Most of them go silent when they see Sherlock walking down the hall and they stare when they see John beside him. John tries to ignore them. The little smirks they wear, the expressions that say ‘thank god you’ve got his attention and not us’, make his stomach hurt.

“I have lots of experiments on the go. You can help me today.” Somehow Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice the stares. He has his phone out and he’s texting, fingers dancing across the screen.

“Okay,” John says because at least it means that he won’t be free for any other professor. His cheeks slide greasily with every step he takes and it feels odd, wrong, and he squirms. A strong hand catches his shoulder and spins, shoving him back against the wall with a thud that takes his breath away. Sherlock is looming over him, eyes burning, a strange smirk quirking his lips.

“I have an erection, John,” he says. “I’d almost forgotten.”

There is no forgetting with Sherlock Holmes, the bastard. John doesn’t know how he didn’t see this coming. The preparation, the walk down the bustling hall – this is Sherlock staking a claim and making sure that everyone knows John belongs to him. He does this every time he feels that the other professors are forgetting. John tries to twist away but Sherlock holds him easily in place with one hand. His other goes to work on John’s trousers, thumbing them open and pushing them and his pants back down John’s hips. They slide to the floor, leaving John naked and erect in front of everyone. 

“Look at me,” Sherlock commands. “ _Just_ at me.”

And, fuck him, John does, staring into those otherworldly blue/grey/green eyes as Sherlock undoes his own trousers and pulls his cock out. He grips John under the arms and lifts him easily, stepping forward between John’s parted thighs to keep him from closing his legs. John pants and wants to close his eyes but he can’t, he can’t stop watching even when he feels the thick cock pressing against his hole, the fat head breaching him slowly, as Sherlock lowers him, letting him slide down the wall until he’s sitting on the man’s cock, legs obscenely splayed out to either side. He’s pinned and vulnerable knowing that those eyes are reading everything about him, stripping him down to the core, ravaging everything he’s ever tried to keep secret, until Sherlock decides to remake him however he wants.

It should be hard for Sherlock to fuck him like this but the man manages just like he always does. He slowly circles his hips until John stiffens against him and moans, exposed, caught off guard by the blazing hot burst of pleasure that’s wound its way up his spine. Vaguely he hears someone tittering but everything feels so far away, like nothing else matters except for this. His cock is trapped between them and it grinds against Sherlock’s stomach and oh it’s good, so good, that he doesn’t even realize he’s closed his eyes until Sherlock says his name, firmly like.

“John, watch me,” he says, “ _watch me_.”

“Sherlock,” he chokes out. Somehow his hands have landed on Sherlock’s shoulders and he tightens his fingers, clenching them into the stiff black fabric. He knows his every emotion is probably being painted across his face and he wishes he could hide it, wishes he could crawl inside of Sherlock’s coat and stay there forever. Instead he keeps staring even when he wants desperately to close his eyes, even when his body is shaking and he can feel himself starting to tip over the edge.

“You want it,” Sherlock whispers. “You want me to fuck you, don’t you?”

No, John wants to say, because he shouldn’t. He writhes and looks away, then looks back.

Sherlock smiles slowly as he reaches between them to grip John’s cock. “You’re mine, John. You belong to me.”

John comes with those words ringing in his ears, a helpless cry escaping him. It seems to go on for ages and Sherlock works him through it, one hand on his cock and the other supporting his hip, cock nudging persistently against his prostate, until John slumps against the wall, whimpering piteously under his breath. Only then does Sherlock press deeply inside of him and come, staring hard into John’s eyes as his hips thrust unconsciously and he fills John with a hot wet feeling. He stays there for – for John doesn’t know how long, seconds, minutes, hours, before pulling out and stepping back just enough to let John’s aching legs fall to the ground.

“Mine,” Sherlock says, catching him before John can slide down, his muscles too weak to hold him up. He cups John’s cheek and kisses him, their lips lightly brushing together, a gesture that seems sickeningly innocent after all that, and when Sherlock lets him go John hides his face inside of the coat so that he won’t have to face a world where Sherlock is, yet again, right.


	5. Chapter 5

John needs an escape. He’s not foolish enough to think that he’s _going_ to escape - it’s not beyond his capability, but it’s also no secret that the reach of the Holmes family goes so far that there’s probably no where far enough that he can hide - but he needs something that’s just his and he thinks he’s found it in the rugby team. It’s perfect. When the season really starts the team will have games nearly every weekend, games that will take him outside of the school and give him a break from… well, from everything. Try-outs are this afternoon and he’s reasonably sure that he’s going to make the team.

He leaves his room only after making sure that no one else is around and starts making his way down towards the back entrance. He’s got to be there by half past one and he’s waited until the last possible minute to leave. He’s told no one that he plans to go and he’s made sure that he hasn’t done anything differently in his routine, all in the hopes that he might actually get to do this. But for all of his preparations, for all of his _care_ , he only makes it to the door before someone steps up behind him and slings an arm firmly around his waist.

“Fuck!” John squeaks, shocked. The body behind him is intimately familiar and causes an instinctive reaction, his cock half-hardening between his thighs. In the clothing he’s wearing it’s blatantly obvious and he hates himself just a little as he starts, “What the - ”

“Rugby tryouts, John, really?” Professor Sherlock Holmes says, sounding a little amused. “How boring.”

“Not to me,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Fortunately your opinion doesn’t matter.”

“Let go,” John says to the door, standing stiff and tense, deciding that he’ll ignore that last remark. He refuses to relax into Sherlock, not even when the hand on his belly rubs idly. “I’m going to be late.”

“That doesn’t matter because you’re not going at all.”

“Sherlock - ”

The hand around his waist loosens and slides away and then he’s being turned around. Sherlock stares down at him with a familiar smirk on his face. “Have you ever actually watched one of the practices, John?” he says with the slight tilt of his head that means he already knows the answer to his question.

John hesitates, sensing a trap of some kind. “No,” he answers cautiously.

“I didn’t think so. Come on, I think you’ll enjoy being an _observer_.” Sherlock puts particular emphasis on the word “observer” and John bristles as a heavy, possessive hand is placed against his lower back, guiding him out the door. They cross the damp grass together and, ahead of them, John can see the rest of the boys who are trying out getting ready. The school’s athletics professor, a man known only as Colonel, is striding around them in a loose circle, slapping a riding crop against his knee-high boots. He catches sight of Sherlock and John and pauses.

“Good morning sir,” he says. “Got another one for us?” He leers at John and gives the crop a particular snap. John shivers, able to imagine the kiss of the crop against his skin all too easily, and finds himself pressing just a little bit closer to Sherlock. 

“We’re only here to watch,” Sherlock says firmly, his hand sliding up John’s back to rest on his neck. The sight of the pale fingers spread across John’s skin seems to be enough to make Colonel back off. He casts John a longing look as he turns away and strides back over to the other students.

“Let’s get moving,” he shouts, aiming the crop at the nearest backside. The student yelps in pain and hurriedly pulls his shirt off. John watches in what can only be described as horrified amazement as the students strip naked, wearing only trainers and, in some cases, bands of cloth around their foreheads. They assemble in front of Colonel and he begins shouting instructions at them, never ceasing with the occasional strike of the crop across thighs, bums and backs. Every sharp snap makes John wince. It’s too similar to the thwack of the cane and he realizes that the sound is probably going to haunt him for a long time.

The students get into formation and the game begins. It’s surreal to watch and John wonders how he missed this, how he could have expected anything about this school to be normal. For once he’s actually relieved that Sherlock interfered because he gets molested enough without being in the middle of… of _this_ , whatever it is, and it only serves to get worse when a scrum starts. He watches them gather into a tight circle and when the signal is given, well. It dissolves into chaos. Fighting dirty is apparently not against the rules here. Cocks are grabbed, balls are yanked, nipples are twisted, fingers are thrust into arseholes, and before long the point of the scrum has been forgotten and it’s become what can only be described as a gangbang, with some of the weaker students being thrust unwillingly into the receiving position of cock on both ends.

“Do you see?” Sherlock murmurs and John starts, having almost forgotten the man was even beside him. “Do you see why I didn’t want you to participate? You belong to me, John. It’s bad enough I have to share you with the other professors for the time being.” He practically chokes saying that. “I don’t _like_ sharing and you are not to have sex with anyone else.” The implied ‘unless you have to’ doesn’t need to be said.

For a split second something rebellious flares in John’s chest and he’s tempted to run into the fray just to prove that he still has some say over his life. But no matter how frustrated he gets he’s never going to be that stupid, and so he doesn’t protest when Sherlock turns him around and they start walking back towards the school. Over his shoulder John can hear Colonel finally wading into the fray, yelling at them to break it up, all the while swinging his crop and not caring where it lands.

“Why?” John says, staring straight ahead. His chest hurts. He can see his future and he doesn’t know whether to hate it or not. “Why me?”

“Because you’re interesting,” Sherlock says without skipping a beat. 

John sends him a look of total disbelief. “Interesting,” he says flatly. He’s seen what the other students have to deal with. Yes they’re punished sometimes but on the whole it’s a fraction of what John goes through. The thought that this is all happening because a madman finds him _interesting_ makes him feel sick. “You can’t… you can’t just…”

Sherlock kisses him. In one smooth move he’s pulled John around and pressed their mouths together, cutting off whatever else John was about to say. The words die a swift death as Sherlock parts John’s lips, ruthlessly invading his mouth and kissing him until John’s knees feel weak and he’s having trouble standing. He can’t breathe, can’t even think under the onslaught of lips and tongue and teeth. A firm surface meets his back and he distantly realizes that Sherlock has backed him up against the wall of the school, but then his legs are being nudged open and a thigh is sliding between at just the right angle for John to rut against.

“Don’t ever tell me that I can’t do something, John.” His voice is all dark smoke, a heady whisper that feels like it’s leaving an actual impression on the skin it’s voiced against. He shifts ever so slightly and John whimpers at the feeling of his cock receiving just the right amount of pressure.

“S-Sherlock,” he pants, his hands scrabbling for purchase, and he can’t even remember what he was going to say or why. Arousal blooms hot and sweet in his belly and he grinds down, searching for more friction as that mouth, bloody hell that _mouth_ , latches on to his neck and begins to suck hard. He doesn’t realize that Sherlock’s hands are working on his trousers until he feels cold fingers wrapping around his cock. Helplessly he bucks forward, a strangled sound emerging from his throat.

But then - 

The feeling of being restrained, of his orgasm being just a little out of reach, sweeps over him. John struggles for breath as he opens his eyes and looks down. His cock is hanging out between them, erect and ready, and Sherlock has slipped a small black piece over the shaft. John’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Is that…?”

“I had an experiment planned for us today,” says Sherlock. “I was planning to see how many times you could come in an hour.” He lightly tickles the underside and John moans. “But I don’t like being denied, John. You’re going to learn quickly that there are so many different ways of punishing you and not all of them involve being taken over a knee and spanked or a cane. You will wear this until I say that you may take it off.”

“I…” John can’t get enough air into his lungs. His whole body is trembling, on the brink, but he can’t, he _can’t_ and it’s maddening already. “Sherlock, _please_.”

Sherlock smirks, damn him, and presses a hand to the back of John’s head. What he wants is blatantly obvious and John grits his teeth as he gives in, falling to his knees. Trapped between the wall and Sherlock, he breathes in the scent of musk as Sherlock takes his cock out. The foreskin is already retracted and the head is gleaming from pre-come: a fat drop wells up and dangles tantalizingly in front of John’s eyes. Without a second thought he leans forward and takes it in his mouth, suckling like an eager child, using his tongue to clean the warm skin. 

A soft moan escapes Sherlock and he tangles his fingers in John’s hair, tugging lightly, not hard enough to hurt. Joan groans in response and begins to suck harder, putting all of his skill to work. The headmaster likes to come down his throat on rare occasions but Sherlock is the only one who comes in his mouth, and as he nears his completion Sherlock pulls out so that just the tip of his cock is between John’s lips. His eyes have gone dark as he grunts and comes, pumping his seed into John’s mouth, leaving John with no option but to swallow as much as he can. The bitter, salty aftertaste lingers as he pulls back and wipes his mouth.

His cock is achingly hard. “Sherlock,” he says pleadingly.

“No, John.” Sherlock grips his arms and easily pulls him up into another kiss, blending the flavour of his come and his mouth until John’s head is spinning. “Not until I say.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be 7 chapters now because a bit of plot snuck in when I wasn't looking.

The rest of the weekend is torture. Sherlock insists that he requires John's presence to help with all of his experiments even though John knows for a fact that there are several Chemistry-obsessed students who would gladly trade their right arms for the chance to stay in man's presence for even a minute. He doesn't even bother to point this out, though, not wanting to be treated to a thirty minute lecture about how utterly boring the rest of the population is. Instead he mutely helps as best he can and tries not to break completely the three different times that Sherlock pins him down and fucks him slowly, letting John feel every ridge of his cock, until his rim is swollen and sensitive and John is sweating and trembling and trying not to beg.

He wakes up on Monday morning to find himself in Sherlock's bed. He has no memory of going to bed last night; in fact that last thing he does remember is trying to find a comfortable position balanced on one of the stools and watching Professor Sherlock Holmes in his element, dancing around a lab table covered with highly dangerous experiments. He doesn't want to think about he's ended up here. Instead he sits up and rubs his eyes, wondering what time it is, hoping he's not late for class. Almost immediately he notices is that he's naked, and the second thing he notices is that the headmaster is sitting on the other side of the room, one leg folded over the other, watching him intently.

"Jesus!" John cuts off the curse words that want to escape and swallows them, scrambling for an armload of blankets. Holmes has seen parts of him naked before but not completely nude and it’s not a routine John wants to start. He stares at the man, dazed and bewildered. "What are - "

"It's a curious thing, John," Holmes says, idly tapping one end of his umbrella against the floor. John eyes it and can feel himself turning a pretty shade of red, remembering where it was the last time he'd seen it. When he looks up again, Holmes is watching him with a fascinated air. "When you first came to this school I thought you would be just another toy. A fun one, to be assured, but nothing more. But then you caught my brother's eye. I believed that you were a passing fad, and yet..." He cocks his head and waits like he's expecting John to leap in with an answer to a question that hasn't been asked.

"I don't know," John says a little sheepishly and a lot angry. He doesn't _know_ what it is about him, ordinary little John Watson, that has Sherlock so curious. Sometimes he's not sure he wants to find out.

"Yes, you wouldn't, would you?" comes the soft, almost amused reply. Holmes takes a pocket watch out of his suit jacket and looks at it. John suspects that the move is more for show than anything. "I believe I requested you visit the nurse, John. I have had no report of your health in my office."

"I..." Again John cuts himself off. It won't do him any good to point out that actually Holmes had said he could visit the nurse _if he wanted_ which he doesn't want thank you very much. He swallows hard, steeling himself. "I'll go this morning then, shall I?"

"See that you do." The man levers himself up. "You were a good student, John. Pity."

John stares after him, even more confused than before, before shaking his head. A visit to the bloody nurse - fucking fantastic. Muttering under his breath, he slowly climbs out of the bed and gets dressed in the neat set of clothing that's waiting for him on the nearby chair. There's no sign of Sherlock and no reason why he shouldn't get the visit over with, so he shoves his hands in his pockets and heads down towards the office. No one is around when he gets there; only a handful of truly obsessed students would be brave enough to come here if they weren't truly ill. John squares his shoulders before knocking on the door and a moment later it's wrenched open.

"There you are, been wondering where - oh." Doctor Bill Murray blinks down at John, looking surprised. A moment later that's wiped aside for a wicked expression that sends chills down John's spine. "Hello there, John. What can I do for you?"

"The headmaster sent me to get a check-up," John says stonily.

"Did he now. I'm afraid I have prior arrangements this morning." In the back a whip cracks and a young voice cries out in pain. John flinches. Murray smiles lazily. "But that's alright. Nurse Adler is on hand today and I'm sure that she wouldn't mind over-seeing your examination instead. That's alright with you, isn't it?"

No, it very much isn't, John feels like telling him. If there is one person in this school that he really and truly hates based just on personality alone it's Irene Adler. He can't stand the way she smiles at him, like she knows something about him that no one else knows, and she seems to take special pleasure out of dropping Sherlock's name into the conversation and watching John squirm, sometimes literally. She knows how to push buttons and she delights in the reactions that she gets. John’s never actually seen Sherlock and Irene interacting but that’s probably a good thing, as just hearing the way she talks about the man makes him want to punch her in the face.

But what John wants hasn't mattered for a long time, and Murray ushers him into the room and closes the door. A moment later the door at the back of the room opens and a woman comes out. She's dressed in the shortest, tightest nurse uniform that John has ever seen and she'd holding a whip in her hand. When she catches sight of John her eyes light up and she licks her plump bottom lip. If Murray notices, he doesn't pay any attention. He's bustling around the room collecting his stethoscope, a tongue depressor, and a tube of medical grade lubricant. He disappears into the back room and leaves John alone with _her_. That woman.

"Hello John," she says and her voice is a deeply seductive purr, something that rarely fails to get a good percentage of the boys in the school excited at hearing just a couple of syllables. "What brings you here?" At John's stony stare, she grins. "Not going to talk to me today, hmm? Just like Sherlock, the silent type. That's alright. I think I can guess. Get undressed and put the robe on, there's a good boy."

She won't turn away and John knows it. He doesn't give her the satisfaction of hesitation, knowing that she loves knowing that she's gotten under his skin. He strips without a trace of modesty, baring his skin to the cold room, and wraps the robe around him, though the flimsy thing does little to help now that she's already seen him naked. Irene makes a soft sound in her throat and, for about the half hour, she actually acts like a proper nurse. She takes his vitals and listens to his heart, checks his eyes and ears and throat, even his reflexes. John goes along with it, silently grinding his teeth as he submits to her touch. Every deliberate slide of her nails against his skin makes him itch and when she tells him to turn around and bend over he seriously contemplates making a run for it. May have done just that had she not cracked the whip and given him a reminder that she won’t hesitate to use it on him.

The kiss against his lower back and the resulting weal that’s left behind is enough of a threat. He twists and bends over, propping his elbows on the counter and baring his bottom to her perusal. He spreads his legs when she places a foot between his thighs and hangs his head, clenching his fists as he feels a cold finger prodding at his entrance. It's still sensitive after Sherlock's attention and he winces a little. Irene clucks her tongue.

"Dear me, I'm going to have to tell Sherlock to be more careful with his toys. Obviously he's not taking the proper time to stretch you. That's alright, though; I have the perfect thing for you. Stay there." Irene moves away but she's back all too soon and something cold and hard is pressing against John's hole. He tenses unconsciously. "Relax. It will be worse if you don't."

"What - " he starts, gasping out loud. Whatever it is, it's big, pushing relentlessly, parting his insides and feeling like a bloody invasion of the worst kind. His legs are trembling by the time the widest part pops just inside and settles into place. Irene chuckles and strokes his arse cheek in a pantomime of a comforting gesture. Her fingers graze whatever’s inside of him and he makes a strangled sound at the dim flicker of pleasure.

"A plug," she says simply and he can hear some odd, faint clicking noises that his mind can’t place. The plug has settled in just right to nudge against his prostate and it’s worse when he squirms but he can’t stop. "Easy and effective. It will keep you stretched all the time so that Sherlock and the others won't have to worry about it." She pinches his cheek and he jumps. She laughs. "I'm going to prescribe it to you for a full week. Make sure that you're wearing it at all times, John. It may be difficult for you to put it in by yourself so I suggest that you ask whoever has fucked you last to help." She says it cruelly and John can practically feel his face flaming.

Unwillingly, he imagines asking Lestrade or Moriarty to put it in, or worse Sherlock, because the man can be purposely absentminded sometimes and it would be just like him to fuck John in the hall and then make John ask him to put the plug back in, in front of anyone who happens to be in the hallway. And just like that John's mind skips to being plugged after Sherlock has come inside of him, to being full of Sherlock's come all day, and he lets out a shuddering breath as the arousal that has never really died grows fresh in his belly. He can feel his cock swelling with blood and lifting, his balls growing heavy, and just the thought of spending a day like that would be enough to make him come were it not for the fucking cock ring. He nearly sobs in frustration.

The door bangs open. John jumps again. Irene stops him from straightening up with a firm hand to his spine. "Hello Sherlock," she says softly. “Got my message, I see.”


	7. Chapter 7

There’s a tense pause before Sherlock speaks and when he does his voice sounds strange. “Irene.”

“You have a lovely toy but you’re not taking care of him properly. Fortunately I’ve stepped up,” she says and it’s all too easy to picture the wicked smile on her face. The pressure of her hand eases and she draws a finger teasingly down between John’s arse cheeks, tickling the plug until John grunts and shifts. “Doesn’t he look pretty like this, Sherlock?” she asks in a breathy purr.

There’s a confusing few seconds where John hears footsteps moving around behind him and he’s not sure who has moved where and that’s pretty fucking terrifying but then another hand, a familiar hand, settles on his lower back, fingers splayed out in a possessive position. Against his will he can feel his body relaxing. Better the demon he knows than the one that’s still an unknown danger. Soft fabric brushes against his lower thigh as Sherlock steps closer and then the robe is draped over his back, shielding him from view. Surprised, he straightens up, tentatively at first and then more firmly when Sherlock doesn’t stop him, and turns to look at Irene.

She’s watching them, full lips curved into a small smirk, idly tapping the whip against the palm of her hand. “Are you sure?” she asks Sherlock. “We could have some fun, you know. There is just so much that I can teach the both of you. I know _you’ve_ still got a pure mind.”

John nearly chokes at the idea of Sherlock being _pure_ in any way. Sherlock’s hand tightens against his back to keep him silent. He says, “I’ve told you before that you’re not allowed to touch John, Irene. Your obsession with me runs deep enough without taking anyone else into it.” Somehow he manages to sound bored and condescending all at once and Irene’s face flushes just a little, nearly imperceptible but there all the same, and it’s possibly the most satisfying thing John has ever seen.

“I was just trying to help,” she says, pouting a little. 

“I don’t want your help,” Sherlock says and it’s not meant to be a brush off or a rejection, it’s just simple fact: Sherlock Holmes doesn’t want or need the help of anyone. Irene stares at him for a long time before she lets out a disappointed sigh. 

“Pity. We could’ve been good together. I could’ve taught you a lot.” There may be genuine regret in her face, John can’t tell. He suspects that Irene is just trying to make Sherlock feel guilty. Predictably it doesn’t work. Sherlock just ignores her and uses his arm to push John forward, not even giving him enough time to fetch his clothing, guiding him out into the hall. John knows his face is bright red and he clutches vainly at the flimsy robe. Silly, really, when most of the students have seen him naked before but this is somehow much more revealing.

They end up back in Sherlock’s room. John sinks down onto the bed, his legs feeling like mush. The plug shifts inside of him and he shudders at the resulting spark of sinful pleasure from a gentle nudge against his prostate. Sherlock looks at him, expression calculating, and in the next breath he’s across the room and the robe is gone and John is sprawled flat on his back when his legs up on Sherlock’s shoulders, parted and exposing him to the man’s perusal. He gulps, flustered and stunned, and then tries to wriggle backwards to get some modesty. Strong hands grip his hips and stop him from moving.

“John,” Sherlock says. “John.”

“W-what?” John says breathlessly, shivering at the way those eyes look peering up at him, breath sliding over his shaft, though Sherlock appears not to notice. Impossible, since it’s nearly poking him in the chin. 

“You have a choice to make.”

It’s so the opposite of what John is expecting that for a moment he just stares in befuddlement. “What?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, like _do keep up John, really_ , but he repeats himself. “You have a choice to make. I am leaving the school.”

John experiences two conflicting emotions that are completely different from one another. Beneath the shock and surprise, one is joy: now he won’t have to worry about being unravelled because Sherlock is the only person who can do that. But the other is genuine dismay: for the first time, he actively allows himself to imagine a life without Sherlock and is chilled by the results. How has this man, this bloody possessively frustrating man, ensnared himself into John’s life so easily? How has Sherlock managed to make John want to be with him when John should hate him and be relieved that he’s leaving? He fists his hands in annoyance and Sherlock smirks.

“You may stay here if you like,” he says. “When you graduate Mycroft will make sure you have the highest recommendation possible. Or you can come with me. I’m going to London.” 

On the surface it sounds like a release, a choice to not be with Sherlock, but John’s smarter than that. He understands that his choice is going with Sherlock now or staying at the school for the time being and being found later. He exhales shakily and tips his head back. It’s hard to think. His cock is achingly hard and throbbing and Sherlock is stroking the soft skin of his inner thighs, not quite brushing against his balls but close enough that it tingles, that John knows exactly where he wants Sherlock to touch him. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“I’m never going to get away from you, am I?” The question is resigned and doesn’t really require an answer. His fate is sealed in blood and lust and some odd twisted form of something that John can’t bring himself to identify, not yet.

“Of course not. You’re mine, John.”

“Why me?” John looks down again. His hands are shaking. “Why me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stares at him for a long, speculative moment. Then he says, “On the day that you first came into my class I deduced everything there was to know about you in front of everyone. By that time you’d had an introduction to the school from Mycroft, a taste of his cane, and although you didn’t know the full extent of what was coming you had a good idea. The idea abhorred you and you would’ve left had it not been for your parents and your desire to keep from disappointing them. In spite of how repulsed you were, you took my deductions in stride and called me brilliant.” His voice drops into a low rumble that makes John’s stomach tighten. “You said I was amazing.”

And fuck, John remembers that so well, that first day when he’d walked into the Chemistry lab, bottom stinging after a private meeting with the headmaster, and Sherlock had turned to look at him. A good portion of his life had been stripped bare for everyone to see in the span of a few short minutes and it _had_ been amazing; he’d never known anyone who could do that and it was extraordinary, captivating him like nothing else. The words had come out before he could stop them and he’d developed a crush on this mad creature in between one breath and the next. He’d had no idea he was sealing his fate.

Now, he wonders if he’d kept his mouth shut, might things have been different?

“Say it,” Sherlock says. “Say you’ll come with me, John.” The implicit “say you’ll be mine” hangs around them.

“Yes,” John says finally, because god help him he can’t lie any more, he wants this, wants Sherlock, and he’s so hard it hurts and Sherlock is so close and no one can do to him what this man does, no one, “Yes, I’ll go, just please - ”

Long fingers part his cheeks and slide the plug out of him. Sherlock tosses it over his shoulder with a disdainful look, like Irene’s toys aren’t good enough for John, and lowers his head. John’s back arches and he cries out at the first warm touch of tongue against his hole, lapping insistently at the sensitive rim, soothing away the damage that has been wrought. No one has ever done this to him before and he can’t believe how it feels, like Sherlock is attacking every single one of his individual nerves and licking them into submission. He thrashes, uncertain of whether he should push down or move away, and it’s only Sherlock’s hands on his hips that keep him still.

And then when Sherlock pushes in with his tongue, well. John nearly levitates off of the bed and gives a hoarse wail, his cock jumping against his belly. It’s so good that it’s bordering on painful and he honestly doesn’t know how much more he can take, it’s _too_ good. Sherlock has devoted himself to his task with the sort of single minded approach he gives to all of his experiments and he seems to be enjoying the new range of moans and squeaks that he’s pulling out of John’s body. John can’t keep himself quiet, even when he stuffs his fist into his mouth he can’t stop the sound from spilling out.

“Please,” he gasps, and air doesn’t seem necessary, not for this, oh god, “Sherlock, I can’t.” He can see his cock jutting up against his belly, red and angry at so much stimulation, and he wants and needs to come but he can’t, he’s so close but he’s still under Sherlock’s control and he whimpers helplessly.

Sherlock stands, keeping John’s legs spread, and pushes in. John yelps and freezes at the unexpected pressure of a large cock filling him, but within a couple of seconds it starts to feel good. Really good. He’s more than stretched and his body adjusts quickly, he’s ready for a thorough fucking but Sherlock doesn’t move, just props himself on one arm and leans over John and stares down at him. A low whine builds in John’s throat and he rocks his hips uselessly, unable to do much more than squirm when he’s skewered and pinned like this, so deeply that he swears he can almost taste it.

“You’re mine, John,” Sherlock says very slowly, putting special emphasis on each word, like he wants to burn it into John’s brain.

Lost, John thinks, eyes fluttering as he draws in a shaky breath. He’s so lost and he doesn’t even care. “Yours,” he chokes out. “Yours.”

The confining pressure around his cock eases and then the edge is there, so near that John is dangling, unable to pitch over until Sherlock slides out once and then pushes back in directly against his prostate. John’s vision goes white and he loses control of everything, his body shaking and trembling uncontrollably, cock spurting days worth of seed all over his belly and chest, even as far as his chin. He’s vaguely aware of Sherlock kissing him and he tries to gather himself enough to kiss back, hands weak as he clutches at Sherlock’s shirt. 

He regains himself slowly and finds that they’re now both lying on the bed. His back is against Sherlock’s chest. Long, slender arms and legs are wrapped around his body and a hard cock is still buried inside of him. He feels completely surrounded by Sherlock, like he’s drowning in the man, and he can’t bring himself to care anymore. Wearily he flexes the muscles of his arse and Sherlock huffs a laugh behind him just before a kiss is placed on the back of John’s neck, one that quickly turns into sucking and nibbling. A mark will be left, one that tells the world who he belongs to, and John’s just amazed it took this long.

“Go to sleep,” Sherlock says into his skin. “I want you like this, with my cock in you, so that you know who you belong to.”

John allows his eyes to slide shut, exhaustion taking over, and he’s asleep so quickly that he doesn’t have time to tell Sherlock that he already knows, that it’s been imprinted into every inch of him, so that he can’t forget.


End file.
